The Darkening Dream (22 page)

Twenty-Two:

Obstacles

Salem, Massachusetts, Saturday night, November 8, 1913

P
ARRIS AND
M
R.
N
ASIR
made their way across town, turning every so often to follow the direction of the golden compass finger. In about four hours, they found their destination: an ordinary home, wooden, in imitation of the seventeenth-century style.

“Interesting,” Parris said. “Do you know anything about the occupants? The defenses?”

“Unfortunately not.”

The vampire crept up to a window. It was nearly midnight, and Parris saw no lights on inside. He put the compass back in the wooden case he’d assembled that morning.

“I don’t hear any heartbeats,” Mr. Nasir said when he came back. “If no one lives here, I can break in and snoop around. Otherwise we’ll have to wait for someone to return and convince them to invite me in.”

“Go ahead.” At least it wasn’t Parris crawling around in the dark.

Mr. Nasir tugged off his boots and handed them to the pastor. Barefoot, he stepped into the shadows by the side of the house and faded into the darkness. Parris strained his eyes and finally spotted the vampire scuttling up the gray clapboard. The undead moved from window to window and eventually found an open one — who worried about intruders on the third floor? Parris watched him grip the sill and begin to pull himself in.

There was a blinding flash and a loud crack. A hot white trail shot away from the window and over the road. Behind him, he heard the thud of something hitting the earth, but there was no sign of Mr. Nasir.

“Over here,” the distinctively accented voice called from across the street.

Parris crossed the quiet strip of cobblestones. The vampire lay on the muddy grass some thirty feet away. Even in the feeble light it was obvious that al-Nasir was badly hurt. His face was a mass of burnt and bloody skin, and a few inches of white bone poked out of his trouser leg at an odd angle.

“Jesus,” Parris said, “are you—”

“It is no matter.” The vampire spoke through ruined lips. “But keep your distance.”

“Are you sure I can’t be of help?” Parris asked.

“As a general rule, the living who wish to remain in that state do not approach wounded individuals of my kind. My weaker brethren might not be able to resist the sound of a beating heart under such duress.” The vampire’s tone remained calm, but the way he said
my kind
chilled Parris to the bone.

Incredibly — preposterously — Mr. Nasir rolled over into a crawling position, his broken leg flopping. He shoved himself back with his arms and sprang upright onto his good foot. His ruined features rippled in what Parris took for a grimace.

“On second thought,” the vampire said, “lend me a shoulder.”

Parris came around to his bad side. He breathed through his mouth, trying to avoid the nauseating smell of charred dead flesh. Mr. Nasir put one hand near his collar then reached down with the other to jerk his broken leg into an approximation of the correct position.

Parris still held the man’s boots. “Do you want these?”

“Not yet. I need to recuperate and feed. I eat my fingers out of regret — I have delayed us.”

“Does that normally happen when you don’t have an invitation?”

“No, that was a warding spell,” Mr. Nasir said. “I should’ve been more careful. It’s designed to detect men of good character.”

“You didn’t measure up?”

This earned him the ghastly smile: way too many teeth, framed by burnt skin and rent lips.

“And to think,” the vampire said, “I was once considered a moral paragon.”

“What do we do?” Parris said.

“Now, my dear pastor, it’s your turn.”

Parris felt a spike of fear. “Perhaps I haven’t had as many years to tarnish my own character, but it’s unlikely to qualify as
good
.”

Mr. Nasir brushed his fingers against the pastor’s clerical collar, leaving bloodstains behind.

“Aren’t all priests beloved of God?”

Parris bristled — he did believe, after all. Sadly, he knew where his road would lead him. Parris
loved
Jesus but he
feared
the other. And when push came to shove, fear always trumped love.

“You can at least examine the spell from outside,” Mr. Nasir said.

They limped back across the street. By the time they reached the side of the house the vampire was able to put a little weight on his broken leg. He propped himself against a tree.

“Go ahead, take a look for yourself,” he said.

Parris didn’t have a lot of equipment with him, but he could try a little lychnomancy. He withdrew a white candle from his pocket, along with a match he struck against the brick foundation. He lit the candle and tried to relax. Squinting through the flame, he discerned a grid of ghostly lines, obvious once you knew where to look for them. On closer study, each line of power appeared to be woven from many other smaller, dimmer lines. This structure was clearly intended to keep out the likes of him — and the undead. After a few minutes, he blew out the candle and turned to the vampire.

Mr. Nasir appeared much improved. Mud still stained his tattered clothes, his face was likewise filthy, but his burns had dried and scabbed over.

“I can see the ward,” Parris said. “It’s enormous, strong, and hostile to both of us. If this is the work of a single individual he’s a very powerful practitioner. To dismantle an arcane construct of this size would require detailed knowledge of its fabrication.”

“I defer to your expertise,” Mr. Nasir said. “Regardless, into the lion’s den we must proceed. You must find a way for at least one of us to enter.”

A worm of an idea began to wriggle its way into Parris’ brain.

“I think I might know how to pass through myself,” he said. “The ward is designed to evaluate the soul of the petitioner. You have none, and mine is mortgaged to you-know-who, but I might be able to borrow someone else’s.”

Mr. Nasir nodded. “I need to feed. See what you can do tomorrow.”

Parris sighed. The vampire’s hours were hardly conducive to a normal schedule. He was exhausted already.

The undead backed into the shadowy area beyond the streetlamp and vanished into the darkness like a bucket of water poured from a ship disappears into the ocean.

Twenty-Three:

Into the Breach

Salem, Massachusetts, Saturday, November 8, 1913 and Sunday morning, November 9, 1913

O
N
S
ATURDAY
S
AM HELPED
A
LEX
cut two long spear-like stakes and half a dozen shorter ones. They hammered together a collection of wood crosses, which Alex stashed in the Model T along with a machete-like blade, his knife, and a pistol. He considered taking the rifle, but the twenty-two semi-automatic was probably better at close range.

“Your sisters are getting the holy water?” he said.

Sam grinned. “They’re going to sneak into a Catholic church with a canteen.”

“Sarah’s idea, I assume,” Alex said.

“Something going on between you two?” Sam said. “I see the way you look at her.”

“God made eyes for a reason,” he said.

Sam looked at him intently but didn’t say anything. He’d probably liked her for years.

But he wasn’t the one she’d kissed.

The next morning, Alex accounted it a major victory when he stalled the automobile only three times on the way to Sarah’s. Her mother answered the door.

“Is Sarah home?” he asked. “Some local farmers are offering cash for help with the harvest, and I thought she might like to join us.”

“She told me,” Mrs. Engelmann said. “Bring back some squash if you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The parlor contained an upright piano and a glass cabinet filled with silver paraphernalia — church-like yet different.

Sarah bounded into the room. “I thought we were meeting at the Williams?”

“I was driving past.”

They said goodbye to her mother. When they reached the Ford, he opened the door for her.

“Such a gentleman,” she said. “Would you have done that last week?”

“Of course.”

“I’m just teasing.”

He went around front and started the engine, then coaxed the thing into motion. They zoomed forward and careened around a curve. Alex braked hard. Sarah flew forward in her seat, bracing herself with her arms.

“Is it always like this?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just me.” He noticed a scratch on her wrist between glove and sleeve. “Did you cut your arm on the boat?”

“Probably.” She glanced at her wrist. “I hurt myself all the time and rarely notice. The other night at dinner, you never told me your grandmother’s name.”

“Isabella. I didn’t want to upset Grandfather.”

Sarah didn’t say anything. He glanced over, trying not to crash the car. She was staring off at nothing.

“Was she a redhead?” she eventually said.

Alex thought about the portrait in the library, Isabella with her orange braids. “How’d you know?”

“I dreamed about a redheaded Isabella the night of the boat.”

“She’s about your age in her portrait.”

“A painting? Not a photo?” Sarah asked.

“The old man hates photos.”

Alex pulled over and turned off the engine. Grandfather was the last thing he wanted to think about.

“We need to wait until Emily and her parents leave for church,” he said, “or she’ll know we misled her about the raid.”

“We lied,” Sarah said. “I don’t like lies, but it’s not safe for her to come.”

“Not safe for us, either.”

He leaned over and kissed her. She let him, then again and again until they were both breathing hard. Eventually, she gave him the tiniest push and pulled away.

“I’m not a good enough kisser?” he said. “We can practice some more.”

“No, the kissing’s fine. Better than fine.” She laid a finger against his mouth, just for the briefest moment. When she took it away, the spot tingled. “But try not to act differently in front of anyone else.”

If Sam had his questions, Anne had to be a couple steps ahead. “I’ll do my best.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s time to go.”

He sped through the last couple of blocks. At the Williams place, he turned a hair too late as he tried to maneuver into position by the curb and smacked a front wheel into the raised line of cobbles.

“It’s the driving that needs practice,” Sarah said.

Sam was inside the foyer with jars of water, his pistol, and boxes of ammunition. Alex had a hard time looking him in the eye. At least the dog was nowhere to be seen.

Anne came down, swimming in oversized trousers, apparently having borrowed old ones from her brother.

“Ready for action?” Sam said, loading shells into his revolver.

“The lever on the right feeds gas to the engine,” Alex explained to Sam as he drove. “The one on the left controls the spark timing. The right pedal brakes while driving, this big lever is your parking brake. Push the left pedal for the forward gear, middle pedal for reverse.”

“Easy as rolling off a log,” Sam said.